


pieces of home

by propinquitous



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Intimacy, M/M, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 10:03:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21444436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: These are the things that Quentin and Eliot love.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 35
Kudos: 132





	pieces of home

**Author's Note:**

> getting the weekend started right with some completely self-indulgent tenderness.
> 
> thanks as always to portraitofemmy for egging me on.

Here are the things that Quentin loves:

The length of Eliot's forearm as he cooks, the way it pushes and pulls when he shakes a pan or chops an onion. Most of the time, he has to roll up his sleeves to do it, and Quentin can see the delicate motion of his tendons, the way they tense and release with every movement of his fingers. It reminds him that Eliot’s body is his own, and that these nourishing hands are the same that hold him.

He loves the curls that grow with abandon at his sideburns and his nape. They can't be controlled like the longer hair so artfully tousled around his face, little things he can't bring under his spell. Quentin loves to touch them with only the tips of his fingers when Eliot rests with his head in Quentin's lap. He has learned not to scratch his scalp too much, not to accidentally tease his hair into a tangled mess, but he loves the soft sounds Eliot makes when he rakes his nails through the fine hair at the base of his skull, and sometimes it is impossible to resist.

There is also the way that Eliot reaches for him in the middle of the night. Quentin usually finds him after three a.m., his wandering arm pulling Quentin close. He loves the way Eliot’s long spine curls against his sternum and how his fuzzy chest feels underneath Quentin’s sleepy palm. He loves that Eliot’s instinct is to be the little spoon, that he gives Quentin this permission to be the strong one.

He loves the freckles over Eliot’s shoulders, the way they appear in the sunrise like morning constellations. They border his clavicle and trail down his spine and when Eliot tells him, _I always hated them_, Quentin peppers the planes of him with kisses until he laughs and admits that maybe they’re not so bad after all. He loves the way his skin feels, soft and giving, and the way his laughter echoes, beneath his ribs and under Quentin’s lips.

And there is how Eliot’s voice resonates, into his coffee cup in the morning and in the wine glasses and dinner plates in the evening. It’s a particular sound that, Quentin thinks, shakes and cradles his heart. Sometimes, when he’s had just enough wine, Quentin loses track of Eliot’s words, too caught up in the comfort of his voice.

He loves how neat Eliot is, how the splashes from the sink and semolina that falls off of the store-bought English muffins irritate him endlessly. Every morning, he watches Eliot clear the counter of crumbs and wipe it down with a wet cloth. When Eliot insists on making the bed every morning, he obliges. He loves that he has learned to change the sheets with more regularity, that he no longer uses the same bath towel for weeks on end. Eliot has made him feel more functional, a little more adult, and he loves that he has these things now, after everything.

There is the smell of Eliot in the morning - aftershave, deodorant, detergent - and the way he smells in evening: dust, cigarettes, the remnants of a day lived. Almost every day, Quentin pushes up onto his toes to hug Eliot and bury his face in his neck. That is the place he loves the most, the soft skin that he can hide in. The space on his neck, above his shoulder and beneath his beard, fits Quentin’s hands and his cheek and his mouth with equal ease.

When Eliot gets up early and gets the coffee maker running before he gets in the shower, Quentin stays in bed for a while longer, groggy and sleep-warm. He loves the smell of Eliot's shampoo and conditioner, the expensive scent of it carried on the steam that snakes its way into the bedroom. He can't see Eliot, then, but he knows the practiced rituals, the way Eliot scrubs at his scalp and runs his fingers through the ends of his hair. He loves the light humming he can sometimes hear as Eliot goes through each step, and the way the sound of the water changes as he moves beneath it. More than anything, he loves that he knows these things. This intimacy is a privilege.

He loves the way Eliot instructs him from across the kitchen island - _From the bottom of the bowl, Q_ and how after, how he says _Perfect_ when he scrapes the batter into a pan. He loves how Eliot stands just behind him, watching without condescension, as he flips the pancakes on intuition alone.

He loves the trust Eliot gives him, the way he never doubts Quentin's wandering hands, how he always lets him finish his sentences. There is patience to every moment that Quentin is deeply grateful for. No one has ever held him with such tenderness, with so little expectation.

He loves the way Eliot's nose always pushes into his cheek when they kiss, no matter the angle. It’s a feeling so distinctly _Eliot_, an experience he associates with no one else. He’s used to it, now, but sometimes he notices it anew and smiles into Eliot’s lips.

When Eliot gets dressed, Quentin loves to watch him pick his clothes. It's always a process, though these days less so. He selects pressed slacks from sturdy wooden hangers, his shirts from the rack to the right of the closet. Most days, he wears an undershirt, pulling it from its neat pile in the dresser. Quentin loves the simplicity of him in a blue or grey or white v-neck and boxer briefs before he's fully dressed. He feels as though he's seeing Eliot for the first time each morning, stripped of his armor and decoration. Sometimes, Eliot will stand a while like this and talk to him, and Quentin will be struck by the desire to pull him close to where he sits on the bed, to push his face into the laundered cotton of his shirt. He loves that Eliot never resists when he wraps a thumb over his iliac crest or an arm around his waist and says, _Stay home today_.

He loves that Eliot does not try to change him - he does not insist that Quentin dress differently, that he iron his shirts or condition his hair. Even so, he finds that he wants to take better care of himself, that some part of him wants to look like he’s earned Eliot, that a petty part wants other people to be jealous of them. And so he loves the gentle way Eliot teaches him to shave with a straight razor for special occasions, and the smile on Eliot’s face when Quentin asks him to help pick out a cologne. It makes him feel warm, the desire to be desired, and Quentin loves that Eliot never asks, only answers. Quentin thinks that he has never been enough for anyone before.

He loves that Eliot never stops telegraphing his affection - with his words, his touches, with the way he makes sure that Quentin is always well-fed and their is space kept to an anxiety-management standard. Eliot’s love is suffused into every action, every exchange, every lingering hug and touch. This, Quentin thinks, is what love is supposed to feel like: not uncomplicated, but steady, sure.

Quentin has written notes and left them around the house, on Eliot’s wallet where he leaves it on the nightstand and hidden in the pockets of his bag, on his pillow and on the bathroom mirror - to try and convey his happiness, his gratitude at all that they are. They are _I love you_ and _You’re wonderful_ and _You’re it for me_ and hundred other things.

Eliot has not yet found them all, and Quentin is not done writing.

Here are the things that Eliot loves:

The curve of Quentin’s hair when he tucks it behind his ear. Even when his hair is shorter, like it is now, there is just enough to settle this way. It is always soft and it always falls in just the same way as it did years ago on a sunlit lawn in upstate New York. Eliot will find any excuse to reach over and push it back, to touch the delicate shell of his ear. He loves that Quentin always leans into it, and never questions Eliot’s urge to reach across a table or a counter to touch him.

He loves the weight of Quentin, asleep on his chest or leaning against his shoulder; the bulk of him resting in Eliot's lap and his deceptively solid presence. Quentin doesn't know it, but he is as good as gravity to Eliot. He thinks he might float away without him, that he certainly would have by now.

There is the dip beside his hip bone and the divot of his back, places where Eliot's hands come to easy rest in the mornings and late afternoons. The smooth skin there, with its soft and sparse hair, is unlike any other part of him, and Eliot is grateful for the privilege of it.

Eliot loves the spaghetti sauce that Quentin had so studiously learned to make - the careful attention he gave to shocking the tomatoes out of their skins, the time he spent roasting the garlic. And later, after he'd carefully ladled it over the second-most expensive pasta in aisle six, Eliot loved the delicate way he'd made a chiffonade of basil, cutting with the steady, deliberate movement of growing confidence. When they sat down to eat, Quentin had watched him with tentative excitement, biting one fingernail as his leg bounced. Eliot's heart swelled, a blooming thing in his chest.

He loves the ski-slope swoop of Quentin’s nose, the heaviness of his brow and his wide, curving mouth. Often, half-awake in the predawn, he imagines tracing his profile as he breathes the steady breaths of sleep. He imagines Quentin into abstract shapes, triangles and ovals and rhombi, and finds that he loves him just the same.

Even when Quentin is sick, when he’s lost in the blank spaces of his mind, Eliot loves the way that Quentin will always seek him out. He knows, now, when he’s going to a bad place, and Eliot is glad that he does not try to hide it from him like he used to. He loves that Quentin trusts him with him at his most naked, and loves that he is the space where Quentin has chosen to curl up and rest.

He loves Quentin’s insistence that they bring cooler bags to go grocery shopping, his suburban fear of milk and yogurt left out of the cold for too long. He tries to tell Quentin that it’s fine, it’s always fine, and loves the sour face he makes when Eliot puts a new stick of butter in the dish he keeps on the counter, and loves Quentin’s begrudging smile when he admits that he supposes it _is_ better for toast.

When Quentin comes home and kicks off his shoes without untying them but still thinks to arrange them on the rack by the door - it plucks at something delicate in Eliot’s chest. Sometimes, he thinks, the highest form of love is caring for one another’s pet peeves.

He loves the ill-fitting button downs that Quentin has taken to wearing, but even more he loves the worn flannels and henleys, the soft things that mean Quentin is comfortable, that he is not trying to look any particular way. He loves that Quentin owns more sweaters than shirts, and that when his few pairs of jeans begin to wear at the seams, Quentin concedes to going shopping, lets Eliot pick out fitted black denim that makes him look soft but less on the edge of depression. He loves the way Quentin wiggles his toes as he stands in front of a fitting room mirror, assessing, and the way he smiles at Eliot in his reflection.

There is also the particular way that Quentin arranges the bookshelves - the history books by era, the fiction alphabetical by author, the poetry and essays on a separate shelf but ordered in the same way, and finally, comics and graphic novels, arranged in some esoteric order of imprint and franchise. His only exceptions to these rules are the heaviest hardbacks that must live on the bottom shelves, to weigh them down and keep them stable. Eliot had not thought to question him when he’d begun unpacking the boxes, instead sitting back to watch him work. Quentin explained his methodology along the way and Eliot loved the excited lilt to his voice, the quick way his hands moved in the obvious joy of sharing this part of himself with Eliot.

He loves how persistently Quentin communicates, how he unselfconsciously texts Eliot throughout the day with his _I miss you_s and _Come home_s, how he sends him photos of flowers on campus and links to articles he thinks Eliot will like. He is always right.

He loves the square shape of Quentin’s palms, the way they fit over his with surprising confidence. He loves how his hands slip over his shoulders when he leans up to kiss him, the way they hold the back of Eliot’s neck when he’s feeling particularly needy.

He loves how Quentin cranes his neck to kiss him, too, how he has to rock up on the balls of his feet to reach him. The effort of it, the thought and intention - it all makes Eliot feel wanted in a way he struggles to articulate. No one, he thinks, has ever really reached for him like this before.

_I never thought I'd be anybody's anything,_ he tells Quentin, sometimes, when the love inside him crests into a sweet-bitter wave of sadness, of relief. He loves the way Quentin looks at him in those moments, his brown eyes a little wide and his mouth tenderly curved. He loves how Quentin pulls him close and tucks his head underneath Eliot’s chin, and how he says into his chest: _I’m so happy you’re mine._


End file.
